


Until Death Do Us Part

by scottlang



Series: J. Howlett [2]
Category: Logan (2017) - Fandom, Wolverine (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dementia, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Logan (2017) Spoilers, Needles, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, X-Men References, pre-Logan (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 11:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottlang/pseuds/scottlang
Summary: Attempting to hide from his legacy, the Wolverine denounces his name and begins to lose all hope.





	Until Death Do Us Part

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place before the events of Logan (2017). Warnings are tagged in the description. Thanks for reading!

        The crimson liquid dripped from his palms. The slicing pain he felt was almost unbearable. Silver claws would not retract into his knuckles, and thus, he forced the weapons back into his calloused flesh. Hands were trembling as he exhaled a breath. The agony he had suffered through only seemed to grow stronger. He had to focus on other sensations, ones that could bring him out of an endless void, even if it was only for a short while. All he knew was that the reactions to his injuries, however faint, were the only things keeping him alive. Returning his focus to his palms, he watched as his flesh slowly began to reform, albeit leaving a scar in its place. Standing rather haphazardly, his joints popped in response to stretched ligaments, an ache dulling the mutant’s senses. He stumbled to a table in the heated environment, wincing at any stream of sunlight pouring through cracks in the window. A previously threaded needle awaited his use.

        He pulled on the needle, stretching the black thread from its spool. The self-inflicted cut was taking too long to heal, so he began to stitch the skin together, line by line. Each prick of the thin, pointed object left dots of red across his tanned skin, but he needed to close the wound. The pain would subside, eventually.

        Grasping the back of a chair, he slid his body onto the torn cushioned seat, tightening the string as he finished patching the wound. Severing the end of the thread, he let his hands drop to his sides, a shaky breath exiting his parched mouth. Caliban would be returning soon. He needed to clean up his unsanitary medical station before the glorified mutant tracker would come back, hopefully with more medication for Charles. The old man was slowly wasting away. Logan only wanted Charles to move on peacefully but the way he had been earning a wage lately, there was not much hope left.

        Passing by a cracked mirror, the mutant caught a glimpse of himself. He stared back at his older, depressing figure, reaching up to pluck dust balls from his beard. A grimace appeared on his visage as he saw the scars and wounds that adorned his countenance and his body. Caliban had entered the room, unraveling his head wrap, tossing a bag of pills onto the counter. He mentioned that he was going to go check up on Charles, of which Logan responded with a distracted grunt.

        Charles Xavier. One of the most powerful telepaths in the world, well, he used to be powerful. Nowadays, the world believed him to be dead. The gruff, self-healing mutant had taken Xavier from Westchester County, away from the pain and suffering the professor had ultimately caused to so many people. He glanced down at his previously injured hand, feeling his healing factor push the stitches out of his flesh. He tossed the string into the trash, massaging his palms, turning his stare to his reflection in the mirror.

        Logan was fucked up beyond belief.

        The memories that appeared his mind surprised him. He saw Kurt, Scott, Jean, Ororo and younger mutants gathered around the media room of Xavier’s mansion. A smile was on his face as he watched his friends enjoy a film and popcorn together. Kitty laughed at Bobby and Marie while Piotr sat by her side, snickering at the other mutants. Jubilee walked by Logan and squeezed his shoulder, revealing a kind smile to her mentor. The elf teleported next to the self-healing mutant; he offered the option of a beer, of which Howlett gladly accepted. Flashes of the past, of the pain they suffered, began to clot his memories. They were gone now, unfortunately, all of the X-Men were. They had been the first family, the only family he had ever loved, and they were gone.

        Clenching his fists, Logan stormed down the hall, taking his dog tags off his dresser. He let the tags dangle in front of him before throwing them at the wall. The mutant despised his memories as he was only trying to survive. His memories made him feel nostalgic, and it could be used against him. He had let down the X-Men long ago. They had trusted him time and time again and yet he had to hurt them all. The guilt consumed his consciousness and prevented him from getting any sleep. He could hear their voices invading his nightmares, questioning his past motives, causing him to awaken in a pool of sweat.

        Some nights, Logan would find a bar and drown his sorrows in as much alcohol he could consume, or he would take the agony out on his own skin. His anger had become uncontrollably nowadays, and he always returned to the mill with more scars than he could count. He did not want to hurt Charles or Caliban, but it had been a year and they had remained safe, for now. The gruff mutant’s paranoia always got the better of him. He stepped to where he angrily threw his dog tags, picking them up to set them back on the dresser. No matter how much he wanted to dispose of them, those tags gave him his name, his title, his origin.

        Caliban was organizing dishes in the kitchen when he passed by, heading outside to visit the broken telepath. The albino’s pale eyes stared at his fellow mutant, refusing to utter any sort of language that would send Logan into another cycle of rage. He merely continued his chore, stacking plates into a cupboard nearby. The self-healing mutant unlocked and shoved the back door open; his eyes squinted in response to the bright sunlight outside. He stormed to the emptied water tower containing the once powerful telepathic mutant, hearing the old man yelling about some fast food commercial.

        “C’mon, Chuck, time for your meds,” Logan started, stepping towards the professor. Charles tried to avoid the haggard mutant by driving his wheelchair around tables, swerving to repel him away.

        “Get out! I am busy, sir,” The telepath responded, trying to shoo Logan to exit the chamber.

        “Charles, I ain’t dealin’ with this shit today, I ain’t in the mood and ya’ know it—”

        The bald man drove his chair into the mutant’s knee, pushing at his heavy figure, trying to reach his plants. Logan could feel how weak the professor was against him, and thus, he let out a frustrated sigh. Charles tried once more to ram his wheelchair into Logan, glaring up at the taller man. The wrinkles etched into his complexion deepened as he held a piercing stare with the self-healing mutant. Shifting around the chair, Logan was able to halt the telepath’s resistance, picking him up and placing him in his bed.

        “Unhand me, stranger!” Xavier cried out, thrashing within the mutant’s muscled arms.

        “Ya’ know who I am, Chuck, quit it—”

        “You are a strange man and a fool, Logan. Let me go!”

        Carefully positioning the professor on the bed, he opened the paper bag of medication, pulling out a syringe as well as a vial of liquid. Caliban stated earlier in the year that this would calm any possibility of seizures the telepath could suffer from, but it was only a temporary solution. Sticking the needle through the thin foil that covered the opening of the vial, he readied the syringe, pressing it into the professor’s arm.

        “You want me to die,” A soft sigh escaped Charles’s lips, hazy vision turning towards the haggard mutant.

        “Chuck, that’s the last thing on my mind for ya’, I promise,” Logan countered with ease, his brow furrowing as he stared incredulously at his mentor. Truth be told, Charles Xavier was fading away, and the self-healing mutant continued to convince himself that this was the best scenario for them to be in. It was only one they could control.

        “You have nightmares, Logan. I see them when you sleep.”

        “Yeah? What do ya’ see, Chuck?” The mutant packed away the used medical equipment, eyeing the telepath with slight concern.

        “I see you suffering. You want to die, Logan—”

        “Ya’ don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout—” The gruff mutant stood suddenly, growling at his mentor.

        “I don’t want you to die,” A cough left the bald man’s lips, his eyes fluttering closed in exhaustion.

        Logan tossed the bag of pills onto the table housing Xavier’s faux greenhouse, his face twitching with anger. He did not want to admit to himself the truth. Clenched fists hurriedly pushed the door open, worn boots marching back into the mill to find himself a drink.

        “Did you give him his medication?” Caliban questioned, once Logan was inside. He had finished cleaning and storing away the few dishes they had. His pale hands held a soapy sponge as he frustratingly tried washing blood and other bodily fluid from the bearded mutant’s dress shirts. He had gotten the stains out of one shirt and was somewhat grateful that he only had two more left to finish.

        “Yes,” Logan began shifting through the cabinets, searching for a bottle of bourbon or whiskey, something to calm him down.

        “Did he put up a fight again?” The accented tone held a hint of worry as he continued scrubbing through the shirts.

        “I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it—”

        “Logan, I’m not going to nag, but he needs a higher dosage if you want to keep him at this stage without another incident occuring.”

        “I said I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it,” He turned towards Caliban, slamming his fist on the counter. The mutant sniffer barely flinched.

        “The top, far left side of the cabinets,” The albino deadpanned, returning to his task at hand.

        “What—“ Logan glowered at the thoroughly clothed man, glancing at the cabinet he motioned towards. Padding to the cupboard, he fished out a bottle of scotch, popping the top off as he quickly consumed the liquid. He gave a slight nod to Caliban, pulling out a chair to slide onto the cushioned surface.

        “You want to talk about it?”

        “No—”

        “I will speak, then,” He set the sponge to the side, grasping a towel from the counter-top, wiping his hands of the sudsy mixture.

        “I’d rather ya’ shut your fuckin’ mouth, Caliban.”

        “And I would prefer if you would be bloody honest with me, Logan. I agreed to help you and Charles because you needed assistance, both of you did. If you’re going to ignore my requests for stronger medication and for you to take better care of yourself—” The mutant tracker rubbed his face, pressing his palms together as he returned his vision to his companion.

        “I don’t even know what my purpose here is anymore, if you won’t let me help.”

        “If ya’ wanna leave then go. I’ll figure somethin’ out,” Logan took long sips of the liquor, avoiding eye contact with the fellow mutant.

        “I’m not going to leave you to rot, Logan. I do want you to see better days. You just need to trust me more. You’re paranoid beyond belief and it won’t help anything, especially not the professor—”

        “He isn’t the professor anymore, Caliban, that man is gone.”

        “He’s only gone because you drove him away. What happened in Westchester was a long time ago and he continually asks questions about what happened. He’s trying to remember, Logan. Why haven’t you told him?”

        “I ain’t ‘bout to hurt that man,” A shaky breath left Logan in a hurry, palms clutching to the table. Charles Xavier did not deserve the pain that associated itself with those haunting memories. He did not need to see his students, his allies, his friends swallowed whole and destroyed as they were. It was better for them to hide, to remain in the shadows until their bodies decided it was time to let go of the past. The older mutant was the only one willing to live with the action of the past. The telepath did not need that torture.

        “Then—then, try harder to save him, Logan. Before it is too late.”


End file.
